


a firm hand

by plainjane8



Series: on your knees (when you look at me) [1]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Canon Related, Dom/sub Undertones, During Canon, M/M, Non-Sexual Bondage, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Pre-Relationship, idk how to tag this, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:53:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23971870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plainjane8/pseuds/plainjane8
Summary: Brad drops his hand from Ray’s wrist to his thigh and squeezes. Brad knows his fingers are digging in too tight. He’s squeezing too hard. Ray’s MOPP isn’t enough to protect him from the finger shaped bruises Brad knows will be there tomorrow. Blue-gray crescent moons littering Ray’s leg.Brad feels like he’s the one out of control.
Relationships: Brad Colbert/Ray Person
Series: on your knees (when you look at me) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1739812
Comments: 9
Kudos: 79





	a firm hand

**Author's Note:**

> UHHH yeah. So frankly I have no business getting into this fandom rn. I'm YEARSSSS behind here and also so rusty at writing. 
> 
> Safe to say, this is based on the portrayed characters and not the real like people. There may be another chapter or sequel but for now this can stand alone.
> 
> All mistakes are my own.

The first time it happens is an accident.

Brad woke up with a headache. Or he went to sleep with one. He’s not sure if he really slept but each crater they hit in this pile of dust and dirt that they’re pretending is a road sends piercing jolts to something deep behind his eyes. He’s pretty sure he’s not going to survive another minute with Ray’s rambling and the unpredictable rumbling of the Humvee.

Ray’s voice is reaching a crescendo and the only words Brad can make out through this throbbing between his own ears are _fuck_ , _Britney Spears_ and _Illuminati_. If Brad has to listen to Ray croon _I’m a Slave 4 U_ again, it’s going to be the last thing Ray ever sings. Terrible singing aside, it seems excessively rash to shoot his RTO while he’s driving.

Brad’s arm is reaching out before he can even think, an instinct he never had to develop. His hand lands on the middle of Ray’s forearm as he steers them a little too close to a ditch. Brad squeezes. _Tight_. He opens his mouth and before he can get _Shut the fuck up, Person_ out, Ray’s mouth is swinging shut. Brad can practically hear his teeth clack painfully.

Brad stares and the Humvee is blissfully silent. Ray looks straight ahead and avoids the next three potholes.

Brad counts all the way to four hundred before he can hear Trombley and Reporter start murmuring to each other in the back but it’s a soft buzz. Brad leans into the door and wills his headache into submission.

⫸⫸⫸

They’re settling in for the evening when Brad starts hearing the yelling. He doesn’t go running. There are half a dozen men crowding around and it’s only a matter of time before some dick-for-brains officer appears to break things up.

When Brad gets there it’s already over, men scattering as they see him coming. Ray appears from behind Walt and Brad starts to chuckle before he can help himself.

There’s a lump near his eyebrow that’s growing by the minute and when he smirks at Brad, it’s a tinged red.

“Fuckin’ hell Person, you’re gonna give us all your cousin-fucking AIDS if you don’t keep your degenerate inbred germs to yourself.”

Ray spits and showers the ground in a red mist of spittle. “Don’t ya know, Brad? Stupid can’t catch—it’s genetic.” He beams up a Brad and it’s all Brad can do not to hit Ray himself. He’s gets a hand on the back on Ray’s neck and his thumb digs into the pressure point behind Ray’s ear.

Ray promptly goes _loose_.

All the Ripped Fuel and stupid fights in the world couldn’t get him going now. If it weren’t for Brad’s grip, Ray might just crumble. Then again if it weren’t for Brad’s grip, Ray would still be vibrating out of his skin, hopped up on Ripped Fuel and adrenaline.

Ray’s neck is hot under his hand, from the fight and the sunburn he’s been working on. The heat warms Brad’s palm and he digs his thumb in sharper. His grip is probably hurting Ray by now.

They fall into step back in the direction Brad came from and Ray is uncharacteristically silent. Brad wonders how long it will last.

The answer comes quickly. They run into Rudy and he tosses MREs at them. As soon as Brad reaches out to catch both, Ray starts rambling. Something about the fight and someone’s mother. Brad looks down at the MREs, trying to decide which will taste the least like salty cardboard. It’s a crapshoot either way.

“Holy fuck, Ray. Did you get in a fucking fight or did you get gangbanged by Alpha? I can’t remember the last time you’ve been this excited.”

Ray leers around a red mouthful of beef stew, “Sheee-it Brad, you know it’s not a gangbang without you.”

⫸⫸⫸

They run into some hostiles outside of Al Budayr and the only guy more excited than Ray is Trombley. Fucking Trombley.

Walt’s up in the turret when Brad hears the first sharp cracks ring out. Ray’s reaching for the radio before Brad can start barking orders and it comes with a burst of pride. For all the headaches his team may give him, they’re _his team_. They’re shit hot.

There’s too much static coming from the radio and Brad knows it’s not supposed to be his call.

“Which one of these dicksuck, Madonna-loving, entitled faggots touched _my_ fucking radio?” Brad doesn’t know if Ray’s yelling into the radio or at it.

This time it’s a calculated move, an intentional gesture. Brad wraps a hand tightly around Ray’s wrist where he’s smacking at the radio as if that will change the dull static its pumping out. Ray stops his frantic assault on their radio and his hand drops back to the steering wheel.

Brad drops his hand from Ray’s wrist to his thigh and squeezes. Brad knows his fingers are digging in too tight. He’s squeezing too hard. Ray’s MOPP isn’t enough to protect him from the finger shaped bruises Brad knows will be there tomorrow. Blue-gray crescent moons littering Ray’s leg.

Brad feels like he’s the one out of control.

Even after Brad removes his hand, it’s a long time before Ray says another word.

⫸⫸⫸

The next time it comes at Ray’s request. It’s not so much a request as an invitation. Ray knows that Brad knows how to handle this. How to handle him.

He strolls up to Brad and it’s late enough that most of the guys are already in their graves for the night.

“Listen homes, I need a favor.”

Brad raises an eyebrow, “How many times do I have to tell you, Ray? I’m not buying you a farm animal at the market to play with so put it back in your pants.”

“Well shit Bradley, that would’ve really changed the game here. Now that you mention it, my combat jerks have been a bit lacking. It’s like none of the fuckheads have ever heard of privacy.” Ray gestures around before pausing, pretending to consider the merits of adding a farm animal for some variety. “Nah, listen so a couple of the guys got a contest going…” Brad stops listening to whatever Ray is muttering about cocoa packets and tries to listen to what he isn’t saying.

The bags under Ray’s eyes look more like bruises these days and he knows that the only time Ray’s hands stop shaking is when he’s got his M4 in them. Brad hasn’t really slept in weeks, not really. He knows that Ray’s probably slept even less than that.

“Fine. Get in already.” Brad’s nudging Ray into the grave he’d already dug for himself before he can think better of it, interrupting Ray’s story about the contest.

It’s not quite big enough for both of them and Ray wriggles around like a worm after a rainstorm. Brad counts to twenty, waiting for Ray to settle and when he doesn’t Brad can’t help but reach out. Brad wraps a hand around the back of Ray’s head and Ray’s head drops, forehead landing with a dull thump against Brad’s collarbone.

“Jesus fuck Ray, why didn’t you ask sooner?”

Ray is silent and Brad starts counting. By the time he’s reached one hundred, he braves a glance down to find Ray already slumped against him, asleep.

⫸⫸⫸

They don’t talk about it afterwards. Which is to say that Brad doesn’t ask. Knows better.

Brad knows better than to ask. _How long has it been like this? Who did this for you before? Is it always like this?_

_Who will do this for you later?_

Brad doesn’t ask and Ray sure as shit doesn’t bring it up.

Brad thinks it might stop. Thinks that it’ll eventually have to come to a head. Thinks that eventually something will go wrong. He’ll reach out at the wrong moment, the wrong person will be watching, or he won’t reach out at all.

It doesn’t happen though. Ray continues his bullshit. All day and all night. All the way through nameless villages and desert wasteland.

And _sure as shit_ if Brad doesn’t keep reaching out. With a tight grip or a firm hand. A quiet squeeze and sometimes a sharp look. Every time they waste a day unfucking an officer’s mess. Every time Ray starts buzzing out of his skin, running only on Ripped Fuel and his personal brand of backwoods sister-fucking bullshit. Every time Brad thinks Ray needs a little grounding.

Brad keeps squeezing bruises into Ray that he’ll never get to see.


End file.
